


No More Should

by MistressPandora



Category: Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Divergence, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Happy Ending, Heavy Angst, Lord John Grey/Isobel Dunsany, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:46:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27553291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressPandora/pseuds/MistressPandora
Summary: On the eve of his departure from Helwater, Jamie Fraser offers himself to Lord John Grey to test his character. Jamie expected Grey to pass his idiotic test, but he didn't expect to fall in love in the process.
Relationships: Jamie Fraser/Lord John Grey
Comments: 95
Kudos: 120
Collections: Bad Things Happen





	1. Something Good to Think On

**Author's Note:**

> All else remaining the same, what if Jamie had worded his offer to have sex with Lord John in a way that Grey could bring himself to accept it?
> 
> Very special thanks to my friend and beta reader [iihappydaysii](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iihappydaysii).

“Married?” Surely Jamie had heard Lord John wrong. “To a woman?”

Grey stared up at him in the midday sun, looking like he was about to start laughing in Jamie’s face. “I think there are not many alternatives.” The mirth evaporated, settling his mouth into a rather grim line. “But yes. To Lady Isobel.”

 _That_ struck Jamie like a blow to the jaw, and he gaped at Lord John. “Christ, man, ye canna do that!”

“I can,” Grey said indignantly and Jamie felt shame for insulting him. Then John grimaced. “I made a trial of my capacity in London.”

Some unnamable emotion passed through Jamie at Grey’s words. Hurt? Something like hurt maybe, on John’s behalf for feeling that he had to put himself through that. Guilt too, that something Jamie himself had said in one of their uglier shouting matches may have driven him to it. Looking at John now, it was plain to Jamie that he was resigned to it. But Grey had continued talking and Jamie dragged himself from his rumination.

“You needn’t necessarily enjoy the act in order to perform it.” Grey gave him a level look, something like a challenge in his eyes. “Or perhaps you were aware of that?”

Jamie’s gut reaction was to demand that Grey explain what the devil he meant by that. But he held his tongue and Grey went on about Dunsany’s failing health and the family’s need for someone who can see to the running of the estate. With the added benefit that doing so would leave him at Helwater full-time to look after Willie. He’d already made plans to resign his commission.

“It is an entirely suitable match,” Grey concluded. He spoke the words as if he’d said it a hundred times, and Jamie got the distinct impression that he was still trying to convince himself of that very fact.

“Is it then?” Fraser hadn’t meant for it to come out as a challenge, except that that was precisely what it was. It wasn’t as if Jamie thought that Grey needed to be reminded of his own preferences, but this was hardly the way he’d anticipated this conversation transpiring.

Grey took his statement at face value. “It is.” He stared Jamie down with his shoulders set all stubbornly and for just a moment he was staring at the boy who’d tried to slit his throat. “There is more to a marriage than carnal love. A great deal more.”

Something in the way Lord John said the words… It wasn’t precisely condescension but it struck Jamie wrong. The same way so many innocuous things that Grey said had struck him wrong over the years. He couldn’t have explained it then, and he couldn’t explain it now under threat of death or the seal of confession. But he felt the irrational anger rear its ugly head and Jamie turned abruptly, rudely, and stalked off. He’d said far too many regrettable things to Lord John out of anger and old hurt that wasn’t his to bear.

But still. Even as the anger cooled, Jamie couldn’t shake the sense of uneasiness about the entire situation. Something had threatened to set him off, but what was it? Grey was doing the honorable thing, marrying Lady Isobel. The Dunsanys’ only son was long dead, their oldest daughter dead. Grey was a dear friend of the family and they desperately needed one, someone they could trust. And then, of course, there was Willie, who loved Isobel like his own mother, and was rather fond of Grey as well.

 _Willie._

That was it. Grey had never before given Jamie any reason to suspect him of being capable of… More of those ugly, regrettable words Jamie had said to Grey years ago tumbled around his mind, tormenting him. He’d not meant it then, had not actually believed Lord John to be like the men who’d preyed on Jamie in his youth, nor like Jack Randall, nor any of the other people who’d abused wee Fergus in Paris. He ran his hands through his windblown hair, likely leaving it in an even worse state than it already was. What might happen when Grey was settled into his dutiful, loveless marriage? Perhaps in London it was a comparatively simple matter for a man to bed another man. But surely not in the Lake District where everyone knew everyone else and gossip traveled faster than a racehorse in its prime.

Jamie swore under his breath in Gaelic, stomping back and forth through the soggy mud. Perhaps his imagination was running away with him. Perhaps he was being unfair and ridiculous, and if he was, he could answer for that. But he had never had to leave his own bairn before. When Claire had left… _Lord that she may be safe…_ Jamie shook his head, trying to dislodge the mess of thoughts sticking there. Perhaps if Geneva were alive, he would feel differently. He had no love for the woman, God rest her soul. But she would have loved the lad, surely.

And that’s what it came down to, didn’t it? Jamie knew without a doubt that his son would be well provided for, would be content. But there was no one left on the earth save for himself who loved Willie the way he did. Could Lord John grow to care for Willie as his own? They’d spoken before of the capacity for men like Grey to love. Well… _spoken_ wasn’t the word for it. There had been nothing conversational about that night that Jamie had let his old wounds open up and spew directly onto his friend in a blind rage.

Irrational or not, unfair or not, he would never sleep through a single night until he was absolutely certain of what was in Lord John Grey’s heart and soul. Men could lie, some very well—Jamie among them. And there were but few occasions when a man’s guard was sufficiently lowered as to reveal the truth underneath.

At last, Jamie took a long, deep breath and let it out very slowly. He urged himself to tread carefully, calmly. A very large dose of tact wouldn’t go amiss. Then he turned, and made his way back to Lord John, still standing where Jamie had rather rudely abandoned him, patiently waiting for Jamie to work out whatever he fancied Jamie had to work out. 

“Ye’re right,” Jamie said, coming to a stop an arm’s length from Grey. 

Confusion drew Lord John’s brows together. “I am? What about?”

“There is more to marriage than the flesh.” Jamie waited to see the understanding smooth Lord John’s features again before he went on. “There are a great number of reasons why a man may choose to wed a woman. Lust among them. Love too. Affection. A sense of honor or responsibility. The desire to protect her.” Jamie looked down at his muddy boots, thinking of his own marriage and how that had come to pass. True enough, he’d loved Claire at the time, had wanted her. He understood the sense of obligation and familial kind of love that Grey must feel for Lady Isobel. The situations were not so dissimilar, at their core. “Sometimes… sometimes the marriage comes first and the love comes after.”

Grey stared blankly at him, and Jamie sensed a great deal of restraint holding his tongue.

Jamie took a slow step closer. He had to be very, very careful with his wording. An old terror reached for Jamie’s heart and he beat it back down. “And sometimes it doesna come at all.”

“Mr. Fraser, you haven’t the slightest notion how I feel for Lady Isobel.” Grey held his ground as Jamie took another step, his pale eyes narrowing up at him. He was braced for a fight.

“That’s as maybe,” Jamie conceded. “But do ye truly intend to stray from yer marriage bed, carnal love or no’?”

Grey was taken aback, offended. “Of course not!”

Jamie held up a placating hand and took another step, letting a ghost of a smile turn up his lips. “I didna think so. Ye’re honorable to a fault, John Grey.” He had to choose his next words very carefully or this damn scheme of his would be over before it began. “Before I was arrested and sent to Ardsmuir, there was a woman. She kent that I’d arranged to be captured, that I still grieved the loss of my wife.” Jamie watched the muscles of Grey’s jaw tighten but the man said nothing. He laid a hand on John’s arm, grateful it didn’t shake on the way. “What she offered me… weel it wasna love, but it was something good to think on, through the despair that I kent was coming.”

Grey laughed. “I’m hardly going to prison.”

“Aye, that’s true enough. But loneliness takes many forms.” Jamie swallowed hard. This was it. And damn it all to hell, he had no idea how to actually proposition a man. “Would ye… that is, if ye want…”

Understanding him, by some miracle, Grey cupped Jamie’s cheek with his free hand. “Oh, Jamie. You cannot give me that which you do not have.”

“No,” Jamie answered, voice low. “That’s true enough. But perhaps I can give ye something to think on, later. When it gets lonely.”

Grey’s hand fell away from Jamie’s face but he didn’t release Grey’s arm. “Why in the name of God would you make such an offer?”

“Because ye’re a good man, John,” Jamie said, wanting to be right about that with every fiber of his being. “And my dear friend, if that has any value to ye. And I dinna think ye ever did one thing in yer life just because ye wished it for yerself.”

Lord John stared hard into Jamie’s eyes, as if he could read the stars and the moon there. “I would never take something from you that you did not wish to give me.”

“If I didna, I wouldna have offered it,” Jamie lied. 

At long last, Grey gave a slow nod, looking rather shaky, but his voice was steady. “If you’re certain…”

Jamie nodded, his jaw tight. “I am.” 

They stood close enough that it would have been a simple matter for Jamie to kiss him, and Grey’s eyes flicked to Jamie’s lips. Grey leaned in, a barely perceptible motion, letting Jamie meet him in the middle. Jamie laid a hand on his cheek. He could hear it when John’s breath caught in his throat, a faint hitch audible above the pounding of Jamie’s own heart in his ears, thundering away. At the last second, Jamie changed course and let his parted lips skim over Grey’s cheek until he could smell his hair, clean and heady like an approaching storm.

Grey’s warm breath tickled his ear and sent gooseflesh erupting down his arm. Jamie’s fingers slid back into Grey’s hair and tightened, like a spasm he couldn’t control, and John’s strong arms around him were frighteningly reassuring. Grey’s lips were dry from the wind when he pressed them against the exposed skin of Jamie’s neck. _Well, I suppose I’m no’ poisoned…_

“Come with me into the trees?” Grey asked, his voice muffled into the bend of Jamie’s shoulder.

Jamie froze for a moment, his arms still around John. But the trees were hardly a prison cell; if anything, Jamie himself would be at the advantage. The muscles of his arms relaxed and Jamie nodded, pulling away. “Aye. It’s a veritable bog here.”


	2. Dousing the Torch

Lord John stared up at Jamie as the morning sun burnt off the previous night’s chill. Fraser’s grip was solid on his arm, the feel of it searing its way into Grey’s memory forever. It was madness what he was hearing, that Jamie should offer this after… well the sum total of their acquaintance. 

“Because ye’re a good man, John,” Jamie said, and Grey barely managed not to flinch. “And my dear friend, if that has any value to ye. And I dinna think ye ever did one thing in yer life just because ye wished it for yerself.”

Grey searched Jamie’s beautiful eyes for a lie, for a cruel joke and found none. No, of course not. John knew himself to be far from selfless, but… was that really what Fraser thought of him? But no, it would be wrong to accept this. Jamie was still in love with his wife, he wasn’t attracted to men. “I would never take something from you that you did not wish to give me.” 

“If I didna, I wouldna have offered it.” 

Was this… no, this really _was_ happening. Jamie Fraser had just offered to let Grey bed him. And Grey was turning him down, or trying to. _Dear God in Heaven, what in the devil am I doing?_ Why the hell should he say no, after all? Was Fraser completely insane? No, he seemed to have a firm grip on all his faculties, generally speaking. Grey wasn’t dreaming. At least, he didn’t think he was. Was he? He should say no. Fraser would regret this. John should just be happy with his friendship and not risk spoiling it by accepting the most bizarre offer of sex he’d ever received in his life. But what were the odds they would ever see each other again, after Jamie left Helwater tomorrow? Slim to none. This was it. They could write to each other, but their days of quarterly visits and chess games and strange adventures were over. 

_And why in the devil should I_ not _accept?_ They were both consenting adults, after all. And Jamie was right that loneliness takes many forms… 

Grey nodded slowly, having no notion what the bloody hell he was actually doing with his life, and answered. “If you’re certain…”

Fraser returned the nod, looking rather nervous, perhaps uncomfortable. But resolute. “I am.”

Grey believed him, and his heart nearly stopped in consequence. Jamie's pink tongue darted out to moisten his lips and John's attention was drawn immediately to the motion, pulling him in. _Sweet Jesus, I'm about to kiss Jamie Fraser._ But at the last moment Fraser changed direction and skimmed his lips over John's cheek. Grey couldn't breathe. But dear God he _must_ because he was close enough to smell Jamie's skin and hair and that would be a shame to miss. 

Before he could think better of it, Grey looped his arms around Jamie's waist. _Oh, please don't wake up. Don't let the dream end now._ All John could think to do was press a kiss to the narrow stripe of exposed flesh above Jamie’s collar and breathe him in. He didn’t dare part his lips, but the feeling of _Jamie_ letting Grey _hold_ him and _kiss_ him was intoxicating. A hundred thousand birds took flight inside him all at once, and perhaps if he hadn’t been so stunned by the situation, he would have wept with joy. 

Of course, Grey had wanted Jamie for years, and that wanting—the love—had only grown stronger with time. And now, with Jamie’s breath hot in his hair, it exploded. _Best not to get too ahead of ourselves_. “Come with me into the trees?” Grey asked.

Jamie froze and Grey braced himself to have his neck broken. Just as John was about to beg the man to get on with murdering him, he felt Jamie relax and back up. “Aye,” he agreed. “It’s a veritable bog here.”

Grey's heart thundered in his ears, pounding with anticipation as they made their way into the shelter of the trees. He was acutely aware of Fraser's presence behind him, ephemeral, like he could become part of this tame little forest and disappear. Try as he might to focus on the _now_ , Grey found himself replaying their conversation over and over. "I admit I'm thoroughly stunned by your offer, Fraser." It was the greatest understatement he'd ever uttered. "Really, I should find my honor insulted." He turned, searching Jamie's face for a reaction that this was his intent. He wasn't actually insulted. Had it been any other man on God's green earth he probably would have been. Sabers at dawn may have been called for, depending on the man. But not Jamie. Grey could only imagine the depth of feeling that had prompted it. Perhaps not genuine attraction or the kind of love that John felt for him, but… something.

Jamie took a solid step closer. "I didna mean to insult ye. As ye said, I canna offer ye love, but… pleasure maybe. Connection. Intimacy wi' someone who kens ye for who ye are." There was an honesty in Fraser's words that barreled into him, nearly knocking Grey flat. 

Fraser brushed a stray lock of Grey's hair behind his ear with such tenderness that John could have wept. Jamie's palm was warm on his face. Alright. So Jamie offered him physical pleasure without the promise or pretense of something more. Grey would show him love in return and try not to cross any lines in the sand between them.

Grey had to catch his breath before he could mutter, “May I undress you?” His hand started going toward Jamie’s jacket—quite without his meaning to—and he forced it to a halt, waiting for permission.

So much time passed that Grey nearly gave it up and called off the entire thing. But at last Jamie nodded, that resolution setting his jaw that Grey wanted to cut his lips on. “As ye wish, My Lord.”

 _“My Lord?” Did he think…_ The use of his title broke off a piece of Grey’s heart and it fell to the grass between them, shattering on impact. “Please, it’s just us. We are equals. Friends.” _I hope. Please let that survive this._ “I’d much prefer it if you used my Christian name.” He forced himself to keep his own expression as kindly neutral as he could. On impulse, he laid his hand on Jamie’s cheek, desperate for his sincerity to pass between the place where their flesh met.

Then Jamie smiled back at him, looking genuinely pleased—did he dare hope that was relief?—to have reached this point where Grey could offer the familiarity and Fraser could accept it. “Aye then, John.” 

As Grey helped divest Jamie of the outer layers of his clothing, a years-old memory came rushing back to him. One of the worst fights they’d ever had, in the barn here at Helwater. The look in Fraser’s eyes, the inky blackness that nearly led to Grey’s own swift demise. He had no idea, of course, what Fraser had endured in his past, and he would never ask. But he knew there was _something_ and Grey began asking Jamie’s permission before he did anything, gave him choices.

“I’d like to leave my shirt on, if ye dinna mind.” It was the first stipulation Jamie made.

Grey knew precisely what Jamie’s back looked like, had sensed that it wasn’t a part of himself he enjoyed others to see. John wasn’t horrified by the appearance of the deep, crisscrossing scars, save for the part he’d personally played in them. But it was a simple request, entirely reasonable, and Grey agreed without hesitation. “Of course, Jamie. I can leave mine on as well, if that would make you more comfortable.” 

The first hint of uncertainty crossed Jamie’s beautiful face. “Aye then. I suppose fair is fair.” He pulled the ribbon from Grey’s hair and carded his fingers through it from his forehead all the way to the ends of it and Grey felt the touch through his entire body.

Bliss drove Grey to close his eyes, savoring the touch that went on and on. Jamie’s shirt smelled like fresh hay, the skin underneath bearing a most delectable muskiness that John _had_ to taste. He didn’t think that Jamie would really enjoy it if Grey started licking his neck uninvited, so instead he captured Jamie’s hand from his hair. Grey kissed his wrist, the delicate flesh there warm, his pulse tapping against his lips. “Oh God, Jamie.” His voice was muffled because he couldn’t bring himself to pull back far enough to speak. “To be this close. To touch you like this…” More. Grey wanted more. These closed-mouthed kisses were already beyond his wildest dreams, but he dropped Jamie’s hand and put his arms around his middle, one hand tracing the shape of the man. _Oh God_ , everything was just solid muscle. 

“Could I…” Grey bit his lip, suddenly worried his next request—why was _this_ one, of everything, the most awkward—would be denied. “Would you permit me… to use my mouth on you?” Christ, Jamie had truly luxurious lips. He edged closer, determined to kiss him. Just once. A single kiss before he awoke from this fantastic dream.

“Why?” Jamie asked, turning away from John’s advance.

With a disappointment that ran through his guts like a sharp blade, carving off another piece of his heart, Grey arrested his motion to answer the question. “It’s something I enjoy doing. I’d like for you to find gratification as well, if possible.” Did Jamie really think Grey only wanted to use him? Why, of all things, was this the request that gave Fraser pause? It was suddenly a ridiculous notion, and Grey resolutely did not laugh, though he couldn’t stop his grin in time. “Or have I finally discovered a man who doesn’t like to have his prick sucked?” He supposed they existed, but so far Grey had never met one. 

Jamie laughed, a truly beautiful sound that Grey committed to memory, locking it away in his heart. If nothing else, he would have the recollection that he’d made Jamie Fraser truly laugh in an intimate moment. 

“Nay, John. I suppose that’s a rather universal pleasure.” The precise emotion that had prompted Jamie’s rosy cheeks, Grey would never know, but he committed that to memory too. “Aye,” Jamie continued. “If… if ye like.”

Grey didn’t trust himself with words just then, so he sank to his knees, forcing himself to be slow, deliberate, lest he appear too eager. He worked Jamie’s flies open one button at a time for the same reason. Anticipation charged up and down his spine, made him shudder, his mouth watering. Jamie’s hand rested on Grey’s shoulder, distinctly there, but somehow distant.

And then Grey took his first look at Jamie’s prick and whatever strangeness was settling between them again became all at once irrelevant. Because Jamie was half hard and responding and Grey _had_ to have him in his mouth.

The taste of him. The feel of him in his mouth, growing firmer and heavier between his lips. _Sweet. Fucking. Jesus_. It was everything. Absolutely everything. Grey tried to ignore the hand on his shoulder, as if a first line of defense. The trust between them that Grey had thought was sturdy enough for this cracked. Jamie’s hand was strong, his grip tight, almost bruising. A warning, perhaps? That if Grey crossed a line—that he of course could not see because Fraser hadn’t exactly spelled it out—Jamie would overpower him easily?

Jamie's hand tightened on his shoulder abruptly and without breaking his rhythm, John looked up. _Maybe… if I make it good enough for you? Maybe then you will see that I love you._ All the muscles in Jamie's thighs were tight under Grey's hands, tense. But then Jamie let out a sinful gasp and groaned, "Oh. God." His fingers convulsed against Grey's scalp, gently tugging his hair.

Whether it was intentional or not, Jamie pulling his hair ignited the desire in Grey like open flame to black powder. It may have approached rudeness how abruptly he pulled off of Fraser’s cock and pressed a kiss into his ruddy curls. “Christ, Jamie,” he gasped. He mouthed over the sensitive skin at his disposal. He wanted nothing more than to sink his teeth into the meat of Jamie’s leg. To mark him, claim him. It was a singular challenge, but Grey resisted. 

“May I take you?” Grey asked. He slid his hand over Jamie’s hip, the firm muscles of his buttocks, looking up at him from beneath the fan of his lashes so there would be no mistaking his meaning. Grey knew precisely how seductive his expression and his touch could be, had been in the past with other men. _Fool_ , he chided himself. It wouldn’t be right to goad Jamie into that. “You can say no, of course,” he hastened to add. “I don’t want to do anything you’re uncomfortable with.”

Fraser squinted down at him. Searching, it seemed, for the words to refuse him. Grey knew it was too good to be true. This wild charade was drawing to a rapid conclusion. He took his hands away from Jamie, sat back on his heels to give him space. Such a pathetic fool he’d been, to think that Fraser’s offer could have been sincere. To delude himself into thinking that it could ever be more than what it was. 

But what was it? The indelible memory of the feel and smell and taste of Jamie Fraser. Grey stood, his left knee giving a faint pop as he straightened. He waited for Jamie to yell. Braced himself for a fist that wouldn’t miss its mark this time. _Just one kiss first_ , he begged Jamie from in the deep recesses of his heart. _Please. Just a kiss. It doesn’t have to mean anything. Just take my breath away for a moment. As a consolation._ He’d survived for years on dreams and fancy, he could thrive on a memory. Couldn’t he?

Jamie took Grey’s hands in his, big and calloused from work, strong. “Nay, John. I willna come so far and turn ye away.” He gave Grey the start of a polite smile. “Ye may take me, if ye wish it.”

Another sliver of Grey's heart crumbled away. "You're certain?" The throbbing, raw place where he had cradled his love for Jamie Fraser begged for mercy. It didn't matter what Grey did. Didn't matter how good he made it. There was something oddly transactional about the whole affair. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but something was… not quite right.

Jamie kissed the backs of John's fingers, the gesture sweet but awkward. "Aye, I am." His heart wasn't in it.

 _Well, of course his heart isn't in it, you bloody fool_. The spell was already broken. A tragic feeling of utter disillusionment fell over Grey. The torch he'd carried for Fraser all these years slowly dying the light fading with every passing moment. 

"Would you like to turn around?" Grey asked. It would be easier for Jamie if he didn't have to look at him. He was right, there was no love here. Lust and desire still, true enough. 

Jamie turned and John guided his hands to the trunk of the tree in front of him. Stupidly, he let his hands linger, taking what memories he could. 

"It's better if there's—oh, wait." Grey suddenly recalled that he'd picked up a small bottle of oil in his room and didn’t remember putting it back down. He dug into the pockets of his coat, the odd contents rattling now and then until his fingers closed around cool glass. “Ah, that should do.” He tugged out the cork and gave the contents a brief, olfactory inspection. 

Jamie stared at him, the muscles of his jaw twitching. Grey offered the vial. “I hope you don’t find the scent of roses disagreeable?”

Something shifted in Jamie’s expression when he sniffed at the bottle. “Nay, that’ll do fine,” he said, and turned back to the tree. His shoulders were tight, Grey could see as much through his shirt and the way he held himself. Poised, likely, for the worst.

Grey drizzled a bit of the oil into his hand and moved slowly, focused on Fraser’s every breath. Reveled in the feel of Jamie’s powerful thigh under his hand. Gooseflesh rippled out from his touch, and Grey delighted in the feel of that, too. It meant nothing, of course, that Jamie’s body was responding to him. Oh, but what a beautiful body. Grey snaked an arm around Jamie’s middle, the muscles of his stomach tight and twitching. So much of him was taut like that. “Try to relax.” Grey kept his voice low. Encouragement, not command. His prick slid against Jamie’s leg and he bit his lip to keep from gasping or making an unfortunate whimper. Just because Grey’s heart was in pieces didn’t mean they couldn’t enjoy themselves. As far as long goodbyes went, there were worse conditions, after all. “I don’t wish to hurt you. You’ll tell me if I do, yes?”

Jamie only nodded, breathing deliberately as Grey slid one finger slowly inside of him. He twitched, once, a reflex. But then with obvious effort, he did relax.

“Are you alright?” Grey asked.

A shudder went through Jamie and he bit back some sound of… pleasure? “Aye.”

Grey tightened his grip around Jamie’s waist, his hand splayed in the center of his chest, clutching him close against him. When he felt Jamie go pliant around his finger, he added another. Slowly, carefully, easing him open despite his own prick’s insistence that he get on with it. Grey nuzzled his cheek against Jamie’s shoulder, breathing in the smell of his shirt, his perspiration and skin underneath. “Oh God, Jamie.” He curled his fingers inside Jamie, looking for—

Jamie moaned. Grey felt it more than he heard it. He slid his prick against Jamie’s thigh and added a third finger. A shiver rippled through Jamie’s body and Grey’s answered in kind. There it was. The connection. The pleasure. Jamie was ready for him and Grey applied more oil to his prick.

How many times had Grey imagined this? How many lonely nights had he tortured himself with this fantasy? Tried to convince himself that his own grip was Jamie Fraser’s arse? Too many. Far too many. But now it _was_ Jamie he sank into. And it _was_ Jamie groaning and sighing as if in invitation, letting him in. 

Grey started slow, let Jamie settle into the idea of being fucked. Gradually, drawing it out, his attention rapt to the tight heat enveloping him, the trembling leg under one hand, heaving chest under the other. “Christ, _Jamie!”_ John buried his face in Jamie’s shoulder again. God, but he was close. “Touch yourself? Or I could…” He took Jamie’s hard cock in hand, suddenly unsure what language he’d spoken in or if he’d spoken at all.

Fraser closed his fist around himself, holding Grey’s hand in place before he could move it away. Jamie thrust into their joined hands while Grey thrusted into Jamie, pounding now, desperate, urgent, craving the pinnacle. 

“Oh God,” Jamie cried, his seed running over their hands. “John!” Sweet Jesus, broken heart or not, his name sounded incredible on Fraser’s lips.

Grey turned his face into the bend of Jamie’s neck, his lips dragging over his skin sticky with sweat. “Jamie!” He yanked Jamie as hard against him as he dared as he filled him up. Giving them time to catch their breath, Grey held Jamie close, leaned against him. Then he pulled out and reality careened into him once again. That torch in his soul extinguished. Sodden. Useless. Cold forever. The most tragic poetic irony that making love to Jamie Fraser should have led Grey to fall out of love with him. Best not to think on that now. Disentangled at last, he touched Jamie’s back. One final pilgrimage of physical contact, the intimacy evaporating. “Are you alright?”

Jamie hadn’t moved from his position braced against the tree. “Aye.” He couldn’t even look at Grey now, could he? “Aye, I’m alright.”

Grey removed his hand from Jamie’s back and picked up their discarded clothes. He felt Fraser’s eyes on him but he pretended like he didn’t. They were back to the place where Jamie would kill Grey for touching him, he could feel it. He focused on dressing, on retying his hair. He avoided looking at Jamie until the last possible moment, until he’d built up enough resolve to lay eyes on the man he’d loved for years without weeping. 

He couldn’t avoid it any longer. He gave Jamie a polite smile, the same one he used in all his uncomfortable social situations. “It’s getting late. I suppose you will have a great many things to do today.

Jamie’s face was impassive, neutral. He felt it too, then. The grievous mistake they had made. The death of their friendship. “Aye, I have. I suppose I should be about my business.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” Grey answered. Dear Lord, who would crack and leave first? Would they just stand there and stare awkwardly at each other until John lost his composure and broke down right here, weeping for the part of himself that had just died? Or until Jamie became enraged and started yelling? Fraser would be gone in the morning. He could avoid him easily for the rest of the day—he had a wedding to help Isobel plan after all. _Holy fucking Christ._

The next thing that happened couldn’t have happened. Jamie squeezed Grey’s wrist, gently, kindly, over his sleeve. More than the touch of a friend, but not that of a lover, certainly. And then Jamie bent down and kissed his cheek, gentle as the caress of a feather, but solid flesh and blood.

Grey blinked up at Jamie, gritting his teeth and fighting tears.

Then Jamie turned and fled, and John watched him go. 

As soon as Grey was certain that he was gone, he sank to the grass, buried his face in his hands that smelled vaguely of roses and of Jamie, and wept.


	3. Finding the Flame

“Come with me into the trees?” Grey asked, his voice muffled into the bend of Jamie’s shoulder.

Jamie froze for a moment, his arms still around John. But the trees were hardly a prison cell; if anything, Jamie himself would be at the advantage. The muscles of his arms relaxed and Jamie nodded, pulling away. “Aye. It’s a veritable bog here.”

It only took a handful of minutes to retreat into the trees, the walk an awkward shadow of their companionable stroll from the stables. They'd walked side by side then, shoulders nearly brushing through their casual conversation. But now Jamie followed a pace behind, watching Grey's every move, glancing around the little forest to familiarize himself with his surroundings.

Lord John started speaking before he turned around. "I admit I'm thoroughly stunned by your offer, Fraser. Really, I should find my honor insulted." He did turn around then and gave Jamie a level look, but there was no anger or offense in his eyes.

“I didna mean to insult ye,” Jamie replied, taking a step to bring them closer. That much was true at least. Test him, sure, and Jamie swallowed a pang of guilt for the deception. He didn't want to insult him, though Grey would be if he knew Jamie's ulterior motive.

"As ye said, I canna offer ye love, but… pleasure, maybe. Connection. Intimacy wi' someone who kens ye for who ye are." That was at least a little closer to the truth. He had mussed the hair at Grey's temple, and Jamie smoothed it back from his finely boned features. It was a calculated contact, and had the intended effect of chipping away at Lord John's hesitancy, drawing him in to lean into Jamie's touch.

"May I undress you?" John asked, rather breathless. His hand came up between them but paused before making its final approach. It was a mild day, the sunlight warm as it filtered through the trees. The balmy breeze over Jamie's face—or Lord John's words—made him shiver.

That old fear reared up again and Jamie's heart resumed it's pounding beat. With considerable effort, he shoved all thoughts of the past from his mind. He would not go into this expecting the worst. He refused. He dismissed the old horror, sent away the pain and the fear, banished it. Drew a firm line between what had been and who was in front of him now. Spared one last prayer for Claire and their child, like a kiss on her hand, and then gently shut the door on her too. There was nothing that Jamie could give his son, save this. 

At last, Jamie nodded, his mouth going dry and nervous sweat tickled his back. "As ye wish, My Lord."

Grey tilted his head to the side, eyes narrowing at the use of his proper title. "Please, it's just us. We are equals. Friends. I'd much prefer it if you used my Christian name." The quirk of his full, pink lips might have been interpreted as a smile. His hand was warm on Jamie's face.

Had their strange acquaintance grown into friendship under other circumstances, all Jamie would have called Grey—except in formal settings of course—would have been _John_. Though Jamie no longer held property of his own and his title as laird meant nothing in the eyes of the Crown, they were on more even footing than they had ever been. And the fact that Grey believed that and wanted Jamie to feel that way put to rest at least some of his worries. Jamie answered Grey's smile with one of his own, hoping it didn't appear strained. "Aye then, John."

John was deliberate and methodical, attentive as he undressed Jamie, asking for Jamie's preferences as he went. "I'd like to leave my shirt on, if ye dinna mind," Jamie said as John took hold of the hem of Jamie’s shirt and started to lift it. He already knew what his back looked like, of course. Had seen it before, watched as the scars grew in number. A lifetime ago. He could bear it if John argued, but it was a simple enough—

"Of course, Jamie," Grey answered immediately. There was no lie, no anger or petty annoyance in his eyes. "I can leave mine on as well, if that would make you more comfortable."

Jamie blinked down at him, found himself distracted by the light shifting over John's features as the wind blew through the soaring trees. "Aye then. I suppose fair is fair." Some undefinable urge drove Jamie to tug the ribbon from Grey’s hair and run his fingers through it from scalp to end.

John's eyes fell closed and his lips parted in a gasp. The neck of John’s shirt was open, his neckcloth draped over a nearby branch with their coats and waistcoats, and Jamie found himself tracing the line of John’s collarbone with his eyes. His fingers followed, and John made some small, breathy noise in his throat. He was fine boned to be sure, but not delicate. They stood close enough now that Jamie could feel Grey’s breath ghosting over his exposed neck.

Seizing Jamie’s hand in his, Grey pressed lingering kisses to the thin skin of his wrist. “Oh God, Jamie,” he said, his lips dragging over Jamie’s pulse. The sensation made something trip in Jamie’s belly and he felt it in his cock. “To be this close,” John said, eyes still closed. “To touch you like this…” Dropping Jamie’s hand, Grey slid his arms around his waist, one drifting down to his hip. “Could I…” John sank his teeth into his bottom lip for just a moment and met Jamie’s eyes. “Would you permit me… to use my mouth on you?”

Surely Jamie had heard him wrong. But as he looked into John’s eyes, all he saw was an earnest request, hopeful patience. Had the whites of John’s eyes always been so bright? Grey’s attention flicked to Jamie’s mouth again and he leaned in, his goal clear. Jamie turned his head at the last moment and let John kiss him on the jaw. “Why?”

“It’s something I enjoy doing,” Grey answered matter-of-factly, intent eyes searching Jamie’s face for… something. “I’d like for you to find gratification as well, if possible.” He gave Jamie a little smirk, one eyebrow arching. “Or have I finally discovered a man who doesn’t like to have his prick sucked?”

Jamie couldn’t help but laugh, much to John’s apparent delight. It relieved some of the odd tension, leaving the air between them lighter. “Nay, John. I suppose that’s a rather universal pleasure.” Grey bit his lower lip again, his sharp teeth turning the rosy flesh pale and then red. Jamie swallowed, his own mouth suddenly dry, and nodded. "Aye, if… if ye like."

John lowered himself to his knees like a man might kneel at an altar, his hands skimming down Jamie's sides, gently, almost reverent in the slowness of it. Jamie found himself taking shallow, fast breaths and forced himself to breathe deliberately. The panting left him a little dizzy, and he steadied himself with a hand on Grey's shoulder as he opened his flies. Attention fixed on his half-hard cock, John licked his lips and opened his mouth, and Jamie closed his eyes. 

For just a moment, Jamie lost track of the world around him, everything spiraling inward to the straight shoulder under his hand, the strong hands on his bare legs, and the hot mouth on his cock doing truly wondrous things to him. An instant of panic flashed through his mind and Jamie’s eyes flew open again and settled on Lord John. He’d unintentionally squeezed John’s shoulder, just a quick spasm of motion, and John looked back up at him with a question written in his features. Jamie didn’t know what exactly the question was or how to answer it. But it did feel good, and Jamie couldn’t stop his pleasured sigh if he’d wanted to. Strangely, he didn’t want to stop it—why not? Well, damn it all, John was intensely focused on him and remarkably talented. The man deserved a response. It was only the polite thing to do.

_Christ_ , he _was_ remarkably talented. “Oh. God,” Jamie whispered, plunging his fingers into Grey’s hair again. He had no right to find such pleasure in this, and yet… And yet, he was awash with it. Grey would probably ask that Jamie return the favor. He could, he supposed. The idea of taking Lord John into his mouth should fill him with fear and revulsion. He should decide now, before the request comes, how to refuse, before all his conscious thought was swept away by the physical delights from John’s mouth.

Grey pulled away with a gasp and pressed his lips to the russet hair at the base of his cock. Jamie left his hand on John’s head, just resting there. “Christ, Jamie.” His voice was muffled against Jamie’s skin, and his cock twitched against John’s cheek. His teeth scraped over Jamie’s flesh, not hard or painful in the slightest. Wanting, but restrained. A caress just as surely as Grey’s hand caressed Jamie’s hip and arse. “May I take you?" John turned his earnest, wide eyes up to Jamie's face. "You can say no, of course. I don't want to do anything you're uncomfortable with." 

When had John’s eyes acquired those faint laugh lines? The thinnest shadows, so light that Jamie thought he could brush them away with his thumb like fallen eyelashes. The lines deepened as Grey narrowed his eyes for less than a heartbeat, then returned to a patiently neutral expression. He stood up then, and Jamie sensed the sad reluctance when John took his hands away from Jamie’s body. 

In that moment, John’s guard slipped, no more than a fissure. But through that fissure Jamie saw everything. John’s disappointment. The illusion that maybe if he was good enough, this _might_ be more than _sex_ crumbling away. And beneath all of it, the resolute acceptance of Jamie’s wishes, of his personal autonomy. Jamie could have kissed him in that moment just to feel the honest joy of it. But he didn’t. If he had, then John would have seen the deception. Or worse, he wouldn’t, and would see something that wasn’t there, couldn’t be there. No. Jamie couldn’t lead John on like that. He’d offered only _sex_. That was the agreed-upon term. That’s what was fair. Jamie’s distant, ancient fears stayed in the past, faded into the abyss. All the ugly things Jamie had said to John over the years, all the stupid, preconceived notions were utterly unfounded. In the absence of Willie’s true parents, there was no one who could care for Jamie’s son as John could. He took Lord John’s hands in his and held them close to his heart while John stared at him, waiting for him to speak.

“Nay, John,” Jamie began, and felt the pinch in his cheeks when he tipped the corner of his mouth up in what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “I willna come so far and turn ye away. Ye may take me, if ye wish it.”

Grey didn’t seem truly convinced and one eyebrow sat a little higher than the other. “You’re certain?”

A kiss on John's knuckles was safe enough. Jamie's hands smelled of horsehair and saddle soap and John's of warm, clean skin, soft against his lips. All in all, not a bad combination. "Aye, I am." Their breeches joined the rest of their clothes on the tree branch, only their shirts remaining between them. The sunlight fell onto Grey just right, and Jamie could see the outline of his body through the fabric, his trim torso, the curve of practical muscle, the straight line of his hard cock. Grey caught him looking and Jamie tore his eyes away to focus on his friend’s face again.

Slowly, John’s guard slid back into place behind his lovely eyes. "Would you like to turn around?"

Jamie did as he was asked, and John's hand ran down his arms to the backs of his hands which he guided to brace against a tree. The bark was smooth under Jamie's rough palms, Grey's body warm against his back. He looked at the ground between his feet and took a deep breath—quietly, he hoped—and tried to relax his muscles, which were tense with the memory of pain. It would hurt more if he fought it.

"It's better if there's—oh, wait." Grey stepped away from him. Jamie looked over his shoulder to see him rifling his own pockets. "Ah, that should do." He brandished a small, amber vial, and Jamie stopped breathing.

Turning back around, Jamie prepared himself to bring this whole thing to an abrupt end, by force if necessary. He could deal with the pain, but he could not abide the pain _and_ the reek of lavender and all the nightmares that came with it.

Grey plucked the cork from the bottle and sniffed the contents with a satisfied nod. He offered it to Jamie for inspection. "I hope you don't find the scent of roses disagreeable?"

Jamie took a cautious whiff, and blinked in surprise. There was barely any fragrance at all, nothing but the gentle aroma of fresh oil and a sliver of floral green. Jamie relaxed again. “Nay, that’ll do fine.” What the devil it was meant to do fine _for_ , Jamie wasn’t certain. But he resumed his position at the tree, his eyes falling closed as Grey ran a gentle hand up his thigh and under his shirt. He found himself taking more of those shallow breaths, his head swimming. It had to be the air, hadn’t it? He hadn’t really meant that he’d wanted to give John pleasure when he’d said it, but now he did. But that couldn’t be right. Jamie tried not to think about the pain he knew was coming.

“Try to relax,” John whispered in his ear, his left arm coming around Jamie’s waist pulling them close together. Grey’s cock slid against his leg, firm and silky smooth, and a slick finger made its way into the cleft of his arse. “I don’t wish to hurt you. You’ll tell me if I do, yes?”

The arm around Jamie’s middle was a comforting embrace, and Jamie nodded, having no words with which to reply. He divided his gaze between his own bare feet in the cool grass and John’s arm around him. He had a swordsman’s hands, knuckles slightly enlarged from frequent exercise and impact. That strong, slick finger slid inside of him, slowly, carefully, and Jamie watched his own toes curl against the earth.

“Are you alright?” Grey asked. The care was genuine.

Jamie felt his own guard slip out of place and he pressed his lips together into a firm line before it could crumble entirely. “Aye,” he gasped.

It didn’t hurt, that was all Jamie could think. _It doesnae hurt._ Repeating that to himself, over and over in his mind. John’s arm around him felt possessive, somehow, but safe. That _was_ surely his imagination. A second finger breached him and that didn’t hurt either. John took his time, pressed his cock against Jamie’s leg with shallow thrusts, his cheek resting on Jamie’s shoulder.

“Oh God, Jamie.” John’s voice was a whisper, muffled by Jamie’s shirt. Jamie got the distinct impression that John wasn’t actually talking to him, but rather himself. It was the whisper of a man holding a particular fantasy in his mind as he pleasures himself.

Except Grey wasn’t pleasuring himself, he was pleasuring Jamie, those long fingers curling and stroking and stretching. John was confident in his movements, tender in his ministrations, and when he added a third finger, there was no pain at all. Nothing but a decadent fullness that sent gooseflesh rippling down his arms and legs and sweat breaking out over his back.

Jamie dug his fingertips into the tree trunk, the bark sharp under the pressure, and he bit the inside of his cheek to keep from moaning John’s name. Some noise escaped though, and Jamie refused to dignify it with acknowledgement. It would be heartless to give either of them false hope. Because of course, John would be wed soon, and this could never be more.

John’s arm around him disappeared, his hand coming to rest on Jamie’s hip, and Jamie fought the wild urge to snatch it back and hold it close to his chest. Christ, he should have kissed John. He should have allowed John to kiss him. What would it have cost him? His pride or dignity? His immortal soul? No, John didn’t want any of those things.

For only a moment, Jamie was empty. Then the smooth head of Grey’s cock pressed inside of him and it didn’t occur to Jamie to bite back his groan before it was too late. His own teeth biting into the inside of his cheek was the only pain he felt as John found a rhythm. He started slow and deliberate, and though he couldn't see his face, Jamie got the impression that Grey was focused intently on him. Was trying to make it good for him, for the both of them.

"Christ, _Jamie,"_ John gasped, his lips against Jamie's shirt-covered shoulder. "Touch yourself? Or I could…" One gentle hand closed around Jamie's desperately hard cock, a subtle instruction.

Jamie wrapped his fingers around himself, capturing Grey's hand and keeping him there before he could retreat. "Oh God," he moaned, not bothering to hold it back. He'd anticipated pain, discomfort, terrible memories. He had expected that John would be kind, perhaps even gentle. He hadn’t really expected to find evil in him, but the fact remained that Jamie had expected to _endure_ this. 

Jamie had not expected to find pleasure in it. He’d not expected to delight in all the places that John touched him. He'd known that there would be a connection. Had counted on it to get his glimpse into John's heart. He had not considered that when he saw John's heart he might get blissfully lost there. But he should have.

Yes, Jamie was indeed a skilled liar, and he had successfully deceived himself for years. For years, he had convinced himself that he didn't love John, never could. That such a thing was not possible. But the intense emotion he felt whenever something John said struck him inexplicably wrong wasn’t disgust. It was a cowardly repressed attraction. 

As John's name tumbled from his lips while his seed spilled from his cock into the grass, Jamie’s only regrets were the false pretense and that he’d not understood how he felt sooner.

"Jamie!" John buried his face in the bend of Jamie's neck, muffling his voice, his breath warm on his skin. He wrapped his arms around Jamie’s waist, held him tight as he came to a stuttering halt buried deep inside him. For a moment they just stood there, breathing and trembling against each other. John clinging to Jamie. Jamie clinging to this moment. An eternity later and all too soon, Grey pushed back, slid out of Jamie, one hand resting in the center of his back. “Are you alright?”

It took Jamie a moment to find his voice. He still had a hold of the tree and he stared at the ground past his billowing shirt to the puddle of seed in the grass. “Aye,” he lied. Jamie swallowed hard and tried for confidence. “Aye, I’m alright.” It was still a lie. John’s hand left his back and Jamie straightened, turning slowly toward John. 

Grey busied himself separating their discarded clothing and passed over Jamie’s breeches without a word, without eye contact. They dressed in a strained silence, tense. Some weight that Jamie didn’t understand but could feel in his bones crushing them both.

At last, John retied his hair and gave Jamie a heavily guarded, polite smile. “It’s getting late. I suppose you will have a great many things to do today.”

“Aye I have,” Jamie said, forcing himself not to narrow his eyes inquisitively at John. “I suppose I should be about my business.” “Yes, I suppose so.”

They just stood there, staring at each other, hardly blinking, and Jamie felt absolutely certain that they would never speak of this again. _Like so many things._ John may have been standing across an ocean for how distant he was. _Fool. Damn paranoid fool, ye went and ruined it,_ Jamie scolded himself. All the kisses he’d dodged, that he had started and aborted in the course of this fucking idiotic farce, he regretted every last one. 

Jamie laid a hand on Grey’s wrist, squeezed gently through the layers of his coat and shirt sleeve. Leaning in, he brushed his lips lightly against John’s cheek. He kissed John’s cheek because he didn’t think the man would tolerate him if he’d kissed his mouth. Best to let all this settle into the past and become a far-off fever dream.

When he pulled away, John squinted up at him, confused, perhaps angry, Jamie wasn’t sure. But Jamie nodded once and hurried toward the stables, cursing every step he took without looking back.


	4. Coming Clean

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter fills my Bad Things Happen Bingo square: **Accidentally Hurt by Friend**.

Jamie was hardly cognizant of his actions through the rest of the day, his mind constantly adrift, wandering off to his impulsive, half-baked scheme to bed Lord John and the surprising consequences of it. He wasn’t particularly fond of inspecting his own emotions too closely these days, yet as he settled the last of his business in preparation for leaving in the morning, it was all he could think about. He thought of saying goodbye to John tomorrow, of shaking his hand and thanking him without words for taking care of his son and it made his eyes burn. And then he would mount his horse and ride away and never see Willie or John again. It was best for the lad, of course, but… well to the devil with it all, it wasn’t what was best for himself. But that remained irrelevant, didn’t it?

The thought of never seeing Willie again broke his heart into a million jagged shards. The thought of never seeing John again made him want to vomit.

Was this how John had felt? Had his friend experienced this horrible twisting in his wame whenever he visited? Because this was not so different from the terrible grief that had settled into Jamie’s skin when he’d lost Claire. He prayed for her safety, for the health of their child, and refused to regret sending her—them—away. 

Why in God’s name had Jamie thought he couldn’t trust John? Why the devil had he let that stupid, baseless, entirely unjust worry get the best of him? What had possessed him to actually go through with that idiotic scheme? 

Well, he’d gotten what he’d wanted, hadn’t he? He knew Lord John now, truly, and reality had surpassed his wildest dreams. And now… And now, because he’d been such a damnable bastard, he’d gone and started falling in love with the man.

 _Oh. Oh, Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ_. 

That couldn’t be right.

But it was. 

Jamie had fallen in love with John and then ruined everything by being a damnable bastard.

Jamie turned the morning over and over in his mind, along with every conversation, every argument, every horrible shouting match that had ever passed between them. Around suppertime, it occurred to him that he could have just… spoken civilly with the man. He still could, and probably should. Try to put it to rights. Explain himself. Apologize for the deception. Be honest. Open, for once in his pitiful life. But almost every personal conversation Jamie and Lord John had ever had had ended in yelling and threats or violence. Perhaps it was best after all to let it fade into the unspoken past. Avoid it, like everything else. It’s not like he’d see Grey again.

He would never see Grey again.

Darkness finally fell over the moors and Jamie went about ordering his meager belongings for his journey north in the morning. Nothing was ever out of place, of course. And even if it had been, he didn’t own enough for it to take more than a few minutes anyway. He checked and double-checked, flipped through a book without reading any of the words, waved off another groom’s offer for a game of cards. 

A couple hours after dark, Jamie found himself outside, watching the house. One by one, the windows began to go dark, candles extinguished for the night. After a time, all that remained from his vantage point were a few bedrooms on the upper floors. He knew which room Lord John was in. It was the one on the second floor with blue wallpaper. 

Jamie never made the conscious decision to go speak with Grey, but found himself moving toward the house. He turned back to the stable twice. But both times, he shook his head like a horse shrugging off a fly, and continued on. Jamie hated how vulnerable he felt. He would have rather walked onto a battlefield unarmed than make this confession to Lord John. But he had to. The guilt, the grief would kill him if he left it like this. It might have been hopeless, but he had to try to make it right.

One of John’s windows was open to the night, the breeze making the gauzy white curtain flutter. Jamie could hear him moving about, quietly but not silent. A workman making repairs had left a ladder laid against the stone edifice, and Jamie retrieved this, standing it up under John’s window. He let it knock softly against the sill, not wishing to startle Grey so much that he woke up the house.

“What the devil?” Lord John leaned out of the window and glared down at Jamie. His expression turned from startled annoyance to confusion. “Jamie? What on earth are you doing?”

Jamie climbed the ladder. “I need to speak wi’ ye,” he said. “I didna wish to be overheard.”

Grey stepped back and allowed Jamie to climb through the window into his room. He crossed his arms over his chest and squared his shoulders. He’d removed his coat and his waistcoat was only half buttoned, neckcloth gone. John set his jaw and gave him a look of supreme opacity, but Jamie noted his watery, red-rimmed eyes, his swollen nose. He’d been crying.

At first that realization made Jamie want to fly into a vengeful rage, to make whoever had done this to John pay for it. But then he realized it was probably himself, and the guilt and remorse barrelled into him and made him queasy.

"Speak then." John's voice was polite and steady, as if he were hoping Jamie wouldn't notice anything amiss. Or have the good grace to pretend he didn't. 

Jamie's first insane instinct was to wrap John in his arms and kiss away his tears. But then he recalled the wee dagger that Grey often wore and thought better of it. John deserved the truth first. Jamie took a deep breath and began. "I… I owe ye a verra large apology. I was not entirely honest wi' ye, John. This morning when I offered…" He swallowed hard, the words awkwardly trapped in his throat. "When I suggested that we…" Jamie realized his left fist was clenched against the mortification making him falter, and forced it open. "My reasons werena… 'twasna like I said. No' at first, at least."

Grey stood still as a statue, regal in his extreme, silent patience. 

_Aye, ye eejit. Get on wi' it then._ Jamie looked Lord John in the eyes. Maybe if he went through the motions of courage, they could get through this with their honor intact. "When ye said ye'd look after Willie, I was afraid… I was afraid I dinna really ken ye as a man." 

John's eyes went wide with shock and righteous anger as he realized where Jamie was headed.

Jamie hastened to explain. "And I didna truly think ye were dishonorable or, um…"

"A pederast?" John spat the word.

Shame, guilt, regret, and a dozen other unsavory emotions writhed in Jamie's belly. "I didna believe ye were, I swear. Ye've never given me reason to think ye were. Only… I've kent such fiends. Ye're nothing like them, of course, and I kent that too, only… I havnae ever worriedt for my own bairn before, no' like this. And… I had to see for myself."

"So it was a test?" Grey said. Jamie had never heard the man's voice so cold. "You lied to me. You coerced me into having sex with you. To… test my honor?"

"Aye," Jamie managed. "At first."

"At first?" Grey's crossed arms tightened into a posture of fury, one heartbeat away from exploding like a powder keg. "And did I pass?"

"John—"

" _Lord_ John, if you please, sir." Grey lowered his arms to his sides. The fuse was lit.

"I beg yer pardon, My Lord. For all of it. 'Twas a damnable, wretched thing to do." Jamie had never felt so small in his life. His chest hurt with regret.

"I would appreciate an answer to my question, Mr. Fraser. Did I pass your so-called test?" A shudder went through Grey, his hands shaking with rage. If he threw a punch, Jamie resolved to take it.

"Aye. It wasna just that, though." He wanted nothing more than to tell John how he felt, hope he would understand. But as Jamie watched Grey, furious but carefully under tight control, he gave it up. There was no way Grey could believe him now. "I am truly sorry to have deceived ye. To have wounded ye so gravely."

"Get out," Grey said, voice low, permitting no alternative but obedience. "My time as your parole officer has ended. There is absolutely no reason for us to ever speak again." 

Jamie stared at him, dumbly, his chest aching, unable to walk away. _I should have kissed him when I had the chance._

"I said, good night, Mr. Fraser."

Holding his composure by a thread, Jamie turned away from Lord John, and slipped out of the window. Feet back on solid ground, he replaced the ladder where he'd found it. He sank to the grass behind a hedge row, covered his face with his hands, and wept as silently as he could manage.


	5. Unexpected Ally

The setting sun bathed Lord Dunsany’s study in an orange glow and the maid came in to light more candles. Lord John and his father-in-law had spent the entire day poring over the records for the estate in preparation for Grey to assume management of most of Helwater’s business. It had been hours upon hours of reading and memorizing contacts and schedules and the fading light was rapidly giving him a pounding headache.

Isobel came in on the maid’s heels, her normally pale face absolutely white as a sheet. “I’m sorry to interrupt,” she said, her voice shaking. She clutched a rather crumpled bundle of parchment in one hand. “John… May I speak with you, please?”

Grey rose immediately, frowning at her with genuine concern. “Of course, my dear. Excuse me, please,” he said to Lord Dunsany and followed his wife into the corridor. She led him far away from her father’s study, into a parlor that was rarely used, and locked the door behind them. “What’s the matter? Did something happen to Willie?”

“No, nothing like that,” Isobel replied, folding and unfolding the sheaf of parchment. “You received a letter today, from Edinburgh. And… well, it was from a printer and I assumed it was business, so I opened it. I am so sorry, John.” Every visible inch of skin on her face, throat, and arms had turned bright red and her eyes had gone watery. Afraid, perhaps? But of what, or who? 

What could it have possibly been? He didn’t know a soul in Edinburgh, much less a printer. Less still someone who could have upset Isobel so with a simple letter. “That’s quite alright,” Grey said. “It isn’t business then, I take it? Or it is business, but unexpected?” He held out his hand for the letter and she passed it to him.

“Oh, it definitely is not business. I didn’t read the entire thing!” she hastened to add. “Only the first page.” She worried her lower lip between her teeth, grimacing. “Please, don’t be cross. I’m… well, you should read it. Would you like me to go?”

"No, no. There's no need." It couldn’t possibly be as dire as she thought. Grey read the envelope. The return direction was indeed an _A. Malcolm, Printer_ in Edinburgh and addressed to himself. The shape of his name sent a flurry of recognition through him. It was written with a stiff hand, the slant of the letters a little awkward, as if the sender had written it with his right hand but favors his left for all else. 

The parlor was on the east side of the house and was thus dark save for a pair of oil lamps near the door. Grey moved close to one, tilting the pages toward the light. It was certainly from Jamie Fraser. There was no mistaking that hand, though Grey had not seen it in nearly two years, since before Fraser had left Helwater.

A fount of confused, tangled emotions welled up under his breastbone. But his wife was watching him from a respectful distance, trying to pretend that she wasn’t. Grey kept it all under wraps. The word _Dear_ and then _My Dear_ were both struck through at the top of the page under the date.

> _To Lord John Grey,_
> 
> _Should this letter reach you—and should you choose to open it—I hope that it finds you well. I am newly settled in Edinburgh, proprietor of a print shop under the name Alexander Malcom, and I write to you now under the same._
> 
> _Actually, I retract my initial statement; I hope that you are well regardless. As of the time I first sat down to write this letter, it has been one year, seven months, and fifteen days since we last spoke to each other. The things I wish to say to you should be shared in person, but I feel you would agree that it is unwise for me to return to Helwater so long as my secret is walking around. Beyond that, of course, I cannot imagine that you would wish to see me. For that, My Lord, I cannot fault you. You would be right to turn me away, as you would be right to burn this letter without finishing it. That is the course I would take, I think, were I in your position._
> 
> _I have spent each day since we parted thinking of what I could say or do to mend the terrible damage I have wrought on our friendship. I feel I owe you an explanation, but what could I possibly say that is not an excuse for my despicable actions? You have been in my thoughts—and in my prayers—since the day I left, the former consisting of regret, remorse, and sorrow; the latter for your happiness._
> 
> _I sincerely hope that you have found happiness. I hope that there is love in your life._
> 
> _I will not say all that has come to mind as I have grieved the loss of your friendship, for my candle is already low. As is the whisky. My past, as you are likely aware, holds a very great many demons. They are with me still, whispering lies that I am ashamed to say I believe on occasion. I believed them, briefly, on that last day of our acquaintance, to utter disaster. Had you no demons of your own at the time, snarling at your back, I imagine that you do now. For I have become one, the very thing my own tried to convince me that you were._
> 
> _And that lie was the most outlandish one of all. The notion that you could be like them, a fiend. I knew better. I know better. And because I permitted those demons to hide the slander under the veil of a father’s love, I lost sight of what was always in front of my own eyes—the man I knew you to be. For but a moment, I foolishly, faithlessly, indulged in doubt. And, in so doing, became the very thing which has haunted me—a demon._
> 
> _Except, it is worse, I think, because I am surely your demon, not my own. I may very well deserve that which haunts me, but you, My Lord, do not._
> 
> _There is no excuse for my actions, and I do not deserve your forgiveness. But I write to you now with my sincerest, humblest apologies. Hundreds of thousands of them. For ever thinking ill of you. For deceiving you. For showering you with insults and deeply offensive accusations. For every time I ever raised my voice or my hand to you in anger. It was never your anger to bear. Never. And yet, time and again I made you a surrogate for it, at gross injustice to yourself. I am sorry, My Lord._
> 
> _How could I have been fool enough to forget, for even a moment, everything I knew—and know—to be true of you? Your sense of honor is without fault, and your commitment to your duty as well. More than that, though, you hold yourself to a moral standard far above and beyond that which is dictated by honor or duty. In so doing, you are an unfailingly kind man; the kindest I have ever known, in fact. Your dedication to the service of others—and to the care of so many—even at the expense of your own happiness, is unmatched._
> 
> _Words cannot express my regret for deceiving you one year, seven months, and fifteen—no, sixteen now, as I see the sky lightening—days prior, though I pray you will forgive that I do not regret the consequential event. It was despicable to think that I could or should test you thus. And though, as I told you later that evening, you passed that contemptible test—Dear God, it hurts my heart to even put that down in ink for how deplorable the notion is—I, My Lord, failed it quite miserably. And in every failure, I find, there is a lesson to be learned. This was mine:_
> 
> _I learned that your hair smells of sunshine and rain. That the skin of your hands is soft, though hardly delicate. And that those same hands which have wielded swords and waged war are capable of heartbreaking tenderness._
> 
> _I learned the exact shape and sharpness of your collarbone and that there is a feeling of safety in your embrace. That such love can exist between men._
> 
> _I learned that you derive pleasure from the pleasure of your lover. And that—were it not for my own considerable shame for the pretense under which it occurred—I would derive pleasure from being him._
> 
> _I learned that I do have love to give you—and my heart—though I know I do not deserve the same returned, nor would I ask it of you._
> 
> _It occurs to me suddenly that I never properly congratulated you on your marriage to the Lady Isobel. I wish you prosperity and every possible happiness for the both of you. I trust that your family—your step son in particular—are well. I am certain that you have found your footing as a most excellent father to the lad. He is fortunate indeed to have you and will become a fine man in his own right because of it._
> 
> _The sun is well risen now. If you have not yet thrown this letter into the fire, then I again offer my sincerest apologies for my despicable behavior. I do not expect a reply and I agree that it is not deserved. It was perhaps quite selfish of me indeed to write this at all, much less to post it. For what? The easing of my own conscience? If that was why I put quill to paper, it was an exercise in futility if ever I saw one. I was such a fool. This is one demon you shall never hear from again. I am unutterably sorry._
> 
> _I should have kissed you. I wish that I had kissed you._
> 
> _Your Most Obedient, Humble, and Wretched Servant,_
> 
> _J. Alexander Malcolm M. F._

There were small, dark stains on all of the pages. Some bore the faint aroma of whisky, sloshed accidentally onto the parchment.

“John?” Isobel’s voice was quiet, as if terrified of disturbing him, her small hand light as a feather on his arm. “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” Grey answered automatically. He realized that he’d slumped against the wall and he straightened. Well, he tried to. He stared at the letter still held tight in his hand, his eyes trapped by the single line: _I should have kissed you. I wish that I had kissed you._ A fresh droplet landed on the parchment, and another. 

“You’re not a very good liar, John.”

Grey clutched the letter against his chest, shielding it from view. He didn’t think Isobel had read over his shoulder, but she’d likely seen enough. “I’m sorry,” he said, looking at her for the first time since he’d begun reading. His voice sounded rough and he cleared his throat. “It was just… unexpected.”

“Is he… in some kind of trouble? Your friend, I mean.” Isobel possessed a girlish, innocent face, but her eyes held a perceptive kind of wisdom that Grey thought suddenly would have made her older brother proud. 

“I…” Grey glanced down at the page again as if Fraser would have written the answer to this question there in the preceding seconds. “I don’t believe so. I hope not,” he added. And why? Why should he hope not? Grey harbored no feelings for the man any longer, after all. And Fraser _had_ used false pretenses when he’d propositioned him. And the spell had been broken. John Grey no longer loved Jamie Fraser.

_Then why are you crying? If you don’t love him anymore, why the devil does this hurt so much?_

The spacious parlor was suddenly oppressively small and John swayed on his feet, thinking better of trying to push away from the wall. 

“John.” Isobel’s hand moved from his arm to his cheek, drawing his attention to her face again. It was an unusual moment of true closeness between them. He’d bedded this woman exactly three times and nothing between them had ever been as intimate as this. “I know.”

Grey did straighten then, suddenly wary and formulating a reasonable explanation for the contents of the letter, the sender’s identity. He packed all of his emotions away for the time being and offered his wife a smile. “You know what, my dear?”

She returned his smile, though hers seemed more genuine. “Well, I know a love letter when I see one, for a start.” Isobel’s expression turned serious. “And I know that one is not from a woman.”

“Isobel, I would never—”

“It is alright. I am not distressed, nor angry, or appalled or anything else that perhaps I should be.” She took her hand away and fixed her gaze on the parchment in Grey’s hand, still held against his chest. “If you want to... “ Isobel met his eyes again and nodded, resolute. “If you want to, you should go to him.”

“That is entirely unnecessary, my dear. This letter is from a friend. We had a disagreement some time ago and he’s merely apologized for his part in it.” It was technically true, at least.

Isobel arched one thin eyebrow at him, that beguiling wisdom shining through with a staggering degree of confidence. "That letter is from MacKenzie and it broke your heart."

Grey wasn't yet prepared to admit to anything, but neither could he lie. She was absolutely correct on all accounts. _I should have kissed you. I wish that I had kissed you._ The drunk and exhausted scrawl danced in front of Grey’s eyes. He should write back. Thank him, accept his apology. It did seem sincere. But it was also a goodbye. 

At last Grey squared his shoulders and began to sweep the pieces of himself back into a pile to rebuild. “No, my duty is here, to you. It took me by surprise, that is all. I’m quite alright.”

“You and I both know that you did not marry me for love,” Isobel countered. “I am quite satisfied with our arrangement. You care for me and Willie and my family a great deal, and I trust that you would never hurt or betray me.” She took his free hand in hers and squeezed it. “You are a good man, John. If you were to go to Edinburgh to see your friend—and all that that may entail, at your discretion—it would not make it less so.”

For reasons he couldn’t explain, Grey _did_ want to see Jamie, so much so that his bones ached. But it wasn’t the honorable thing to do. It wasn’t the right thing to do to his wife, who saw him for who he was and was, bizarrely, fine with it. He gave her narrow shoulder a reassuring squeeze and let his stony mask soften. “It means the world to me that you believe that—thank you. Regardless of my feelings on the matter, I am your husband and I will not dishonor that. Besides, your father and I have a very full schedule for the foreseeable future.”

“All of which will manage for a week—or two—while you handle some urgent, personal matter concerning a certain printer that I most certainly have _never_ met in my entire life.” Isobel was on the verge of laughter, practically giddy with a youthful excitement. Grey found it rather catching and struggled not to laugh himself. “Besides,” she said, straightening her spine and crossing her arms, poised to deliver the final blow to Grey’s fumbling argument. “You, _Husband_ , frequently indulge in romance novels. I’ve seen them. Even borrowed a few. And, therefore, I happen to know with very little doubt in the matter that you are a hopeless romantic. Whatever it was that transpired between you, have you forgiven him?”

“Yes.” In truth, Grey had forgiven Jamie Fraser within days of that last conversation. Fraser had been an utter bastard true enough, but he hadn’t promised anything more than sex. In the end, Grey had been angry with himself for foolishly believing it could have ever been more. Except… it seemed now that it could.

Isobel nodded. “And do you love him?”

 _That_ was the question, wasn’t it? The sense of longing had faded, true enough. Provided Grey could remain sufficiently distracted and focused on the immediate world around him, his thoughts rarely drifted to Jamie. But when they did… the hole was still there in the precise center of his heart, throbbing and sore. 

_I should have kissed you. I wish that I had kissed you._

_So do I._

Grey still had not given Isobel an answer, but that in itself was apparently answer enough. She rose up on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. “I’ll have your things packed and you can leave in the morning.” She reached for the doorknob and Grey stopped her with a hand around her slender arm. She cocked her head to the side, waiting.

“Isobel… Thank you, for…” 

“Of course,” Isobel answered. Grey kissed her on the mouth and she beamed up at him. “I won’t ask for details of course, but I will be _dying_ to know how this novel ends.”


	6. No More Should

It had taken two days and a handful of hours to ride from Helwater to Edinburgh and Grey had spent most of that time deciding what to say to Jamie when he saw him. After more than ninety miles of traveling he’d come to the conclusion that he did not have a goddamn clue. He arranged for lodging and care of his horse and made his way on foot to the print shop of A. Malcolm in Carfax Close with nothing more than a modest breakfast on his stomach.

This was a mistake. A foolish, wild, grievous mistake. He had nothing to say to Fraser, did he? And whatever Jamie had to say to him was likely in that letter. That letter which burned a hole in his coat pocket. That he had read a dozen times a day since he’d left Helwater. Grey had picked apart every word of it, turned them all over in his mind. Identified which stains on the pages had been whisky and which were likely tears. When he saw him, Grey would know what to say. He felt confident in that much. 

The sign was made from iron. Scrolls and flourishes, an open compass and other subtle symbols of Freemasonry decorated the majority of it. And framed at the bottom, a plank of wood, painted red and bearing the name _A. MALCOLM Printer and Bookseller_. 

Grey looked up the stone steps leading to the shop door. This was it. One final climb and he would see Jamie Fraser again. As soon as he opened the door, he’d know what to say. 

There were eleven steps from the street to the door. John paused on the tenth one and took one last steadying breath, let go of the railing, and reached for the door.

Grey closed the door behind him, smothering the late morning bustle of Carfax Close, leaving only the sound of the printing press below and boots coming up the iron stairs directly in front of him.

“Good morning,” said a familiar Scottish voice as Jamie Fraser’s red hair came into view. He examined a page as he came up the stairs. “What can I do for—” Jamie looked up at Grey and froze.

Grey had no idea what the bloody hell to say.

“John?” Jamie asked as if he didn’t trust his own sight. He had dark circles under his eyes and generally appeared to have not slept in days. 

Despite his haggard appearance, Jamie was still undeniably handsome. Grey’s stomach flipped and his heart hammered against his breastbone. For a long moment, he couldn’t breathe. “Hello, Jamie.” At least his voice didn’t quake.

Jamie finished climbing the stairs and came to a stop a few paces away, eyes fixed on Grey. “Apologies, My Lord,” he corrected himself belatedly. “What… Why are ye here?”

“I received your letter,” Grey answered. He stopped himself from touching his pocket and thus giving away its proximity. 

“Ye read it? And ye’re here?” Jamie seemed to be struggling to put it together.

Grey nodded. The entire print shop felt lost in a thick fog. Everything was surreal, dizzy. Nothing felt like up. And Grey still had no idea what to say. 

Fraser looked away, to some neutral, middle space between them a little off to the side. His ruddy brows drew together in a frown. “I am sorry, My Lord. I shouldna been so forward.”

Grey’s throat was suddenly tight. “I would very much like it if you called me John. Please.”

“Aye then, John,” Jamie said with a slow nod.

He should say something, Grey thought. Anything of substance. He saw Jamie, he was _looking_ at Jamie. And yet, nothing. 

Then the sunlight through a window caught in Jamie’s hair just right and everything crashed into John at once. Their conversation by the lake. The odd tryst in the woods. The fight later in Grey’s room. All the pieces of his own heart that had broken away in that course of that singular day, tumbling back into place, stitching themselves back together.

_I should have kissed you. I wish that I had kissed you._

In two, measured paces, Grey stood directly in front of Jamie. For a time they just stared at each other, silent, both of them afraid to speak.

_No more “should.”_

It was reckless, foolish even. Grey drew Jamie down with a hand on the back of his head, and he went willingly, eagerly. Fraser's mouth tasted like this morning's tea and last night's whisky. And then Jamie let him slip his tongue between his lips and wrapped Grey in his arms in a crushing embrace. 

All the pieces of himself that had broken off one year, seven months, and twenty-six days ago snapped back into place. The torch Grey had carried for Jamie sprang back to roaring life, so hot that it would surely burn them both. 

Jamie pulled back but kept Grey in the circle of his arms. He turned his face away, dark eyes cast down in shame. "I am sorry, John." He spoke quietly, his tone befitting the confessional orna shared pillow. "For the terrible things I did and said. And if my saying so in a letter caused ye to turn away from yer wife."

Grey touched Jamie's cheek and his rough, three-day beard, urging him to meet his eyes. "Isobel knows. She encouraged me to come. You haven't broken anything, and I forgive you."

Tears stood in Jamie's eyes and Grey swiped at one with his thumb. "I'm a fool,” Jamie whispered. “I love ye so much it hurts."

A single, joyful tear rolled down Grey's cheek and he laughed. "I know the feeling." 

“Oh God, John,” Jamie gasped and claimed his mouth again. The tricorn that Grey had carelessly neglected to remove dropped onto the floor behind him.

Somewhere very far away, entirely unrelated to the two of them locked in this ardent embrace, the sound of the press died. It was utterly irrelevant with the taste and smell and feel of Jamie surrounding him. All that mattered in this moment was the end of _should_ and the abandonment of _regret_ and this promise that John and Jamie could—at long last—give their hearts to each other.

* * *

It had been yet another sleepless night. Jamie could count on one hand the total number of hours he'd slept since he'd sent that damned letter to Lord John. With any luck, he'd have burnt it and never read it. But it had been sleepless nights before writing it, too. Tossing and turning or pacing the floor, trying to drown his insomnia in whisky. It didn't work. It never worked. 

One year, seven months, and twenty-six days. That was how long it had been since he'd last spoken to Lord John Grey. Five hundred and seventy-three days since he'd realized everything he'd been missing out on and destroyed it all in the process. _God, I should have kissed him._

He'd returned to Lallybroch after leaving Helwater, but he soon found he would rather live in the Dunbonnet's cave again than endure Jenny's invasive questions about marrying again and Ian's kind-eyed offer to listen over a dram to whatever troubled him. He and Fergus had left for Edinburgh just before Hogmanay, much to his sister's concerned disapproval.

On the rare occasions that Jamie did manage to sleep, he dreamt of Grey, his visions alternating between well-deserved nightmares and the truly tortuous images of impossible happiness. He could not be sure if he had been truly asleep or if the whisky had merely rendered his fantasies particularly vivid, but last night had been the latter. Last night, he had said the right things to Grey, had been honest with both of them. He’d done it properly, and the result had been honest love between them.

The phantom image haunted and taunted Jamie through his hasty breakfast. John’s arms around him. The feel of his lips on his. The ecstasy of making love face to face in a proper bed, naked and mutually vulnerable and truly connected. But mostly the feel of John’s kiss. 

Jamie had printed an entire page before he realized he had spelled four words wrong and it would have to be reset. Scrubbing his hand over his face with a sigh, Jamie reached for his cup of tea but found it empty.

“Drank yerself into a fit again last night, I see,” Geordie said. Jamie’s assistant gave him a concerned look over his arm as he gingerly assessed the condition of the damp stack of paper.

The sheer quantity of concerned looks and sympathetic smiles—all entirely clueless as to the cause of Jamie’s lingering malaise—had quickly become a source of annoyance. He could lie, say he was fine and nothing was amiss— _naught but the ghosts of Culloden, ken_ —but those who knew Jamie had long ago ceased to take those words at face value. _Pull yerself together, ye pathetic fool_.

Jamie ignored Geordie’s observation. “I’ll have to reset this one.” He touched the stack of paper, estimating the dampness and finding it adequate. “Go ahead and ink that galley and ye can start on the pamphlet order.” 

Tactfully, Geordie accepted the change of subject and daubed his inkballs onto the galley. Jamie squinted down at the ruined page in his hand, cursing his carelessness. Recalling a fresh tin of tea upstairs, he left Geordie to the pamphlets, the steady rhythm of the lever, platen, and page helping Jamie to focus his thoughts. 

The bell over the door from the street chimed as Jamie mounted the iron stairs, still searching the page for more errors. “Good morning,” he called. “What can I do for—”

He looked up to greet his customer and his eyes landed on the form of Lord John Grey. At least, he thought it was him. Except it couldn’t be him because they would never see each other again. And yet, the man standing just inside the door had the same fine-boned, handsome face. The same pale eyes that saw everything, full lips that Jamie would give anything to kiss _just one time._ It _was_ Grey, but it couldn’t be Grey. “John?” 

“Hello, Jamie,” the man said in John’s voice.

Jamie came to the top of the stairs and recalled their last conversation. “Apologies,” he said. “My Lord.” Not John. _Lord_ John. “What… Why are ye here?” His neckcloth suddenly felt intolerably tight and he couldn’t seem to catch his breath. 

“I received your letter.”

“Ye read it? And ye’re here?” His first thought was _Why the bloody hell would you do a thing like that?_ If Lord John challenged Jamie to a duel, he resigned then and there to throw it.

Grey nodded, lovely, intelligent eyes fixed to Jamie, calculating, agitated. Angry, perhaps? He still had every right to be, after all.

Jamie’s courage cracked and he averted his gaze, jaw aching with the effort of keeping his embarrassment in check. “I am sorry, My Lord. I shouldna been so forward.”

“I would very much like it if you called me John. Please.”

It was an olive branch and Jamie grasped it tight in both hands. “Aye then, John.” _I should have kissed him._ For an immeasurable length of time, they stared at each other, both of them wearing carefully polite expressions. John’s guard was up. Jamie fought to shore up the dam holding back the wild impulse to hold him. But never again. He’d destroyed everything that could possibly be between them.

Somehow, Grey stood closer. Jamie only needed to raise his arm and he could touch John’s face.

John moved first, his strong hand suddenly on the back of Jamie’s head, urging him down to his eye level. And then John was kissing him—John was kissing him, _Oh God,_ and it was perfect. It was better than even his most vivid, lucid dream because this was real and it was now and John’s tongue felt indescribably good in his mouth. Jamie wrapped his arms around him, held him, terrified to let go, desperate to feel everything, take it all in before it was gone again. But there was a promise in it. Hope, perhaps?

But Jamie didn’t deserve it, not until he’d spoken his apology aloud. He pulled away with considerable effort, but couldn’t bear to let go of Grey. “I am sorry, John,” he whispered. If he spoke any louder his voice would crack. “For the terrible things I did and said. If my saying so in a letter caused ye to turn away from yer wife.” It hurt to speak the word _wife_ , but there was no sense in pretending John wasn’t married to Lady Isobel.

John’s hand was soft on Jamie’s cheek, exactly as he remembered it. “Isobel knows. She encouraged me to come. You haven’t broken anything, and I forgive you.”

Jamie’s heart was fit to burst, his eyes burning. So many things to say and not nearly enough words to say them. “I’m a fool. I love you so much it hurts.”

Grey laughed, a beautiful, joyful sound that broke Jamie’s heart and put it back together again for the purity of it. “I know the feeling.”

“Oh God, John.” This time, Jamie kissed John. Longing, pining, love, passion, a dozen other things he had no words for. All spinning out of control, leaving him dizzy and breathless and thoroughly intoxicated on the taste and feel and scent of John. Here, in his arms, kissing him back. A truly _good_ man, willing to let Jamie grow through his most egregious mistakes. 

“I _quit!”_

Jamie released John and spun around to see Geordie gawking at them from the stairs, face red and thoroughly appalled.

“Working for a Papist is one thing, but working for an _immoral_ Papist is another.” 

Putting himself between John and Geordie, Jamie reached behind him to grip Grey’s arm. Whether the touch was meant to reassure or restrain him— _from what?_ —Jamie hadn’t decided. “Geordie—”

His assistant cut him off with the swipe of his hand. “Do as ye like wi’ yer own soul, man, but if it’s come to… sodomy in the shop? It’s come too far.” Geordie paused in his tirade to listen to the church bells tolling the hour. “God’s tooth! It’s no’ even _noon.”_ He shook his head in disgust and pushed past Jamie, storming out of the door, which he slammed shut behind him.

John’s eyes were wide with alarm. “Do you suppose he’ll cause trouble?”

They had been thoroughly careless, and a knot of worry twisted in Jamie’s gut. The consequences if John should merely be _accused_ of sodomy were dire. Not only for himself, but also Lady Isobel and Willie. But Jamie took a moment to think rationally, for a change. Geordie had worked for him for almost a year and was well aware of the sensitive nature of some of Jamie’s clientele. “Nay, I dinna think so. I pay him well for his discretion in other matters. I’ll handle it.”

That seemed to reassure John, his shoulders relaxing. 

Stooping to pick up John’s tricorn, he handed it to him, letting his fingers linger over John’s. Jamie’s heart skipped a beat. “Perhaps we should speak somewhere more private,” Jamie said.

"That sounds like an excellent idea."

"And," Jamie went on, emboldened, "if ye'd be agreeable to it, I'd verra much like to kiss ye again."

John smiled, warm as a burning hearth, and Jamie's heart soared. They would be alright. He had his friend back. Possibly more than that. But they _would_ talk about it. No more _should_.


End file.
